


The Blind Psychiatrist

by Ghosts_Writer



Series: The line between genius and madness [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternativ Universe, Clever!John (making this one up), F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1339090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghosts_Writer/pseuds/Ghosts_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are living together after clearing bounderies and have their second big case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Case and Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Funny, this. A bunny for a one shot turned into a story, turned into a series. I'm not quite sure where it will take me, therefore rating, tags, characters and maybe even relationships might be added as needed. Right now I'm torn between two different ways to go, considering what's coming later. Fair warning, I'm really not good at planing ahead.
> 
> The standard:  
> English is not my native language.  
> Not beta-ed or brit-picked.  
> Any and all constructive critism very welcome.
> 
> This is the second installment. If you haven't already, please read A Study In Human Psyche, as it's most definitely not a stand alone.
> 
> WIP
> 
> I'm not totally satisfied with the name. If you have any suggestions for this or the following stories, please share.

Two and a half months have passed since John moved in with Sherlock and he had to admit, that although things were going really great now that they had settled into a routine that didn't involve sex, he also had learnt a lot of things about Sherlock he couldn't have foreseen, even if nothing really shocked him after the first two days.

He had to deal with violin concerts in the middle of the night, body parts in the fridge and the stench some of Sherlock's more obnoxious experiments left behind. However, he also got to run around London with Sherlock in pursuit of criminals and all in all he felt more alive than he did since returning to London – or maybe ever. 

Living with a genius came with perks and weak spots, as one would expect, and John quickly realised that while Sherlock could spend hours focusing on a single problem and coming up with a solution no one else would have, he was also tremendously good at ignoring things, like cleaning up after yourself or doing the shopping. 

While most of the time John didn't care that much, he loathed Sherlock on this particular day as he carried home the shopping after his second trip to Tesco and what would from then on be called The Infamous Row With The Chip And Pin Machine, because John simply knew that that was a piece of information Sherlock was not going to delete from his mind palace and he was just waiting for it to come back and haunt him at the most annoying of times. 

“Don't bother, I can manage!” he shouted towards Sherlock, who seemed absorbed in the computer screen. The computer screen of a red laptop that suspiciously looked like John's. “Is that my computer?”

“Of course.” Sherlock answered simply. “Mine was in the bedroom.”

 _The_ bedroom. Not my bedroom. One of the many things John tried to ignore because he was always sure that he read too much into everything Sherlock said. “What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?” He asked instead. “It's password protected!”

“In a manner of speaking, not exactly Fort Knox.” 

John took the laptop from under Sherlock's fingers. “There's sensible information on here!”

“As if I cared about your patient's imagined problems.” Sherlock replied while steepling his fingers.

“Imagined problems? Sherlock, just because you don't see the point in psychotherapy-”

“Oh, don't start that argument again. Just be honest for once, how many of your patients do not have a disbalance of neurotransmitter and are simply whiny?” Sherlock asked, glancing at John. “I did spend enough time in psychiatric wards to know that.”

The doctor sat in his chair heavily, sighing when he spotted all the unpaid bills. “It doesn't matter, Sherlock, I'll need to start looking for another job anyway.” He said resigned.

“So, you see my point?” the detective asked surprised.

“No, I'm not changing specialities again, but in case you haven't noticed my hours have been cut to nearly half because of short budget. Sooner or later they'll lay me off.” John answered.

“But why would they fire you of all the doctors? You're the best psychiatrist that dump has seen. You made _me_ talk.” Sherlock now frowned truly confused.

John smiled at the compliment – for once not backhanded. “Last in, first out.” he shrugged. “Besides, you weren't a real patient, so making you talk doesn't really count.”

“What do you mean last in, first out?” 

John stared at Sherlock for a moment in disbelief. “You really have no idea what it's like to have a normal job, do you? Last in, first out means that the last person to be hired is the first to be fired. It works like that most of the time.”

“I'm sure they hired doctors after you. You've been at Bart's for three years.” Sherlock pointed out.

John just rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Look, I'm the last in residency at the psych ward. I'm the lowest in pecking order. They already cut my hours, only mine, by the way, and to tell you the truth, I think it might have something to do with that I walked out of a date with the head of department's daughter, which, until the Monday after I didn't know Lara is because she's using her mother's name. So, as you can see, most likely I'll be unemployed quite soon. Money was already tight but with minimum hours, I'm barely able to afford the rent, let alone anything else. If I don't find something to make more money, I'll probably have to move out.” He looked up to see Sherlock stare into the middle distance. “Are you listening to me?” He asked.

Sherlock suddenly jumped up. “I need to go to the bank.”

~°~

The bank didn't quite turn out what John was expecting. Instead of the normal bank you go to withdraw money, they entered a stock broking office. Sherlock moved through the entry hall with confidence, like he had every right to be here, so John followed. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” The detective announced once they reached the receptionist, his tone indicating that the woman better knew who he was. Surprisingly to John, the woman apparently did as she only seconds later ushered them towards an office, where they were told to wait.

“Are you going to tell me-” John started but was interrupted by a stereotype city-boy.

“Sherlock Holmes!” The man said, shaking Sherlock's hand with a huge (and false) grin on his face.

“Sebastian.” Sherlock replied with a smaller (but equally fake) smile.

“How long has it been? Eight years? Nice suit, doing well?” Sebastian enquired, obviously more to get the same questions than to receive answers. 

“This is my _friend_ , John Watson.” Sherlock introduced.

“Friend?” Sebastian asked, his eyebrows shooting up while he looked between Sherlock and John.

“Colleague.” John corrected automatically. In the last two months he's come across too many people that believed him and Sherlock a couple. He wanted to say he corrected them because he was not gay (despite the two sexual encounters he's had with Sherlock) and not because of the attraction-bordering-something-deeper he still held for the detective (hence the two sexual encounters). He also decidedly ignored the way Sherlock said the word 'friend' whenever introducing him or the way Sherlock looked at him whenever he corrected the faulty assumptions. 

“Ah,” Sebastian said, pointing at the chair, “make yourself comfortable. Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?” After they both shook their heads he sent off his secretary.

“You're obviously doing well, flying around the globe twice in a month.” Sherlock mentioned.

“Oh, you're doing that thing.” Sebastian smiled a grin that spoke of barely hidden disdain harboured over many years. “We went to uni together. He had that trick.” he continued to John.

“It's not a trick.” Sherlock threw in, but was ignored.

“He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.”

“Yes, I've seen him do it.” John replied, not bothering to hide that he already disliked this bloke.

“We hated him for it.” Sebastian went on, John's tone going unnoticed. “You'd come down to breakfast and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night.”

John jaw tightened at the use of the much hated word. Why did everyone think it was ok to call Sherlock a freak? 

“So, how do you know?” Sebastian asked and Sherlock opened his mouth but was once more over spoken. “Is there a spot on my tie from some special ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan? Or was it the mud on my shoes?”

Sherlock waited a long moment to ensure he could answer. “I was just chatting with your secretary. She told me.”

John frowned sideways at his flat mate, knowing he had definitely not chatted with the secretary, but Sebastian laughed.

“Well, I'm glad you could make it over, we've had a break in.”

~°~

After Sebastian had shown them to Sir William's office, basically an empty office, and explained that nothing was stolen, only some graffiti was left on the wall, he presented the security system to them. It looked pretty bullet proof, with key cards on every door, and yet, someone had managed to sneak in, spray a graffiti and leave within a minute without opening the door. 

John thought Sherlock would be over the moon. Granted, there was no dead body, but the detective always pointed out that a locked room murder was the best of cases and while this was not a locked room murder, it was a locked room mystery. However, when John looked at Sherlock, the younger man did not seem overly excited. 

“Figure out how they got in and we'll pay you. Five figures.” Sebastian mentioned, producing a check from his inner pocket. “This is in advance.”

Sherlock didn't look at the check or Sebastian and started walking away. “I don't need an incentive, Sebastian.”

“Um, he's kidding, of course, should I look after that for him?” John asked quickly, hoping he didn't sound too eager. However, he knew Sherlock too often forgot payment in the rush of the case. Sebastian handed over the check and John took a deep breath, trying not to freak out when he saw the three zeros after that five without any comma in between. 

~°~ 

John waited patiently while Sherlock went about the trading floor. When they finally left, John couldn't help to address the issue with Sebastian. 

“You didn't chat with his secretary. You just said that to piss him off.” 

“It was a message left for someone who comes in at midnight.” Sherlock went on as if he hadn't heard John. “Because of pillars and computer screens it could only be seen from one place.” He showed the doctor the name plate. “Not many Van Coons in the phonebook.”

John stopped him from flagging a cab. “He hates you. And obviously you don't like him either. Why did you take this case?”

“It's a locked room mystery.” Sherlock answered with an eye roll that looked almost painful.

“You didn't know that before we got here. So, what are you doing? Are you trying to impress him? Show him what you can do?”

Sherlock sighed. “I think I mentioned before, John, I'm not looking for a therapist.” He called a cab. “Let's look at Van Coon.”


	2. Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to look for a new job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I realize it was a really long wait and this chapter is really short, but I come bearing good news - I think.  
> I've mentioned in a comment that this turned out a bitch to write. I don't like The Blind Banker as much as the other episodes and since I already know a bit where I want this story to go, I know that this won't be my favourite in the installment either - how fitting, eh?  
> Anyway, I have decided on something that might work well for this story. Basically I assume (hopefully correct) that you've all scene the Blind Banker so I just leave out all the canon bits that haven't been altered and will only use those that are either altered or I find important (mostly johnlock-vise).   
> Hopefully this way I'll be able to go on faster and you won't have to wait as long anymore.

It turned out that there really was only one Eddie Van Coon in the phone book, as Sherlock had suspected. John decided to put the discussion about the detective's reasoning on the back burner but he didn't drop it completely. They reached the building quickly and Sherlock rang the door bell twice, but no answer.

He pointed at the name tag above Van Coon's. “New Name tag. Flat above, just moved it.”

John looked at the newly written and placed name tag. “Maybe they just replaced it.”

“No one ever does that.” Sherlock pointed out while ringing the neighbour, and really, John couldn't argue against that.

“Hello?” a female voice answered and Sherlock smiled his I'm-a-normal-person smile at the camera. 

“Hi, I don't think we've met. I live just below you.”

“Oh, yeah, I just moved in.” The woman replied.

“Right, um...I just locked my keys in the flat...” Sherlock bit his lip and John cursed the man. It definitely wasn't fair that a man so uninterested in interpersonal relationships was this good at flirting, or maybe it was just his lips.

“You want me to buzz you in?” The neighbour asked and John knew she was done for. 

“Yeah.” Sherlock answered. “And could I use your balcony?”

 

~°~

 

It was two solid days later when John stood in the living room with his brown jacket, fidgeting with his wallet and keys, preparing to leave for an interview at a private clinic. He felt completely ridiculous being this nervous. He knew his CV was impressive and all former employers – including his current one – had given him the best of recommendations and yet he hated going to interviews. And maybe, just maybe he tried to ignore that voice in his head – the one that sounded an awful lot like Sherlock – telling him that people who could afford this clinic weren't the kind of patients he wanted to treat but those with 'imagined problems'. 

“I'm off then.” John mentioned towards the consulting detective lying on the sofa but as expected didn't receive any kind of reply. Sherlock had been in this state since they had returned from Van Coon's flat. He altered between retreating to his mind palace to figure out the threat conveyed with those symbols and muttering tirades about the stupidity of Inspector Dimmock (or Dim, as Sherlock had started to call him). John had tried to ignore his flat mate for most of it but he couldn't help the lingering looks whenever Sherlock was too deep in thought to mind that his t-shirt had ridden up and his toned stomach was very visible to John, or when Sherlock paced the flat, flaunting that firm and round arse right at the same height as John's eyes when he was seated in his chair. If John wasn't denying so hard, he might have found it curious that someone as straight as him would have such a hard time getting over a crush on a male friend. As it was the good doctor simply pushed down any and all dirty thoughts that came to mind whenever Sherlock licked his lips in concentration, or when he stretched on the sofa and ended his staring as soon as he became aware of it. He desperately tried to chalk up their encounters as experimentation – and maybe just a bit of midlife crisis – and get on with his life. 

Obviously one big part of getting on with his life was to find a job that would take him out of the flat more often, so he shook himself out of his reverie – and forced himself to stop staring at Sherlock's nipples which were tauntingly visible through the thin shirt in the slightly chilly flat – and left for his interview. 

 

~°~

 

As it turned out, going to this interview was the best thing John could have possible done. He was basically walking on clouds when he returned to the flat, positive he'd get a call back very soon and quite positive he'd get a date with that attractive (and very female) Dr. Sawyer in a not too far future. One might think that John had learnt his lesson about flirting at the work place, but then again – as Sherlock was never slow to point out – John had his very daft moments. 

He hadn't even stepped into the flat when he heard Sherlock's voice. “I said 'could you pass me a pen'” 

John glanced at the detective, for the first time in two days dressed sharply, sitting on the desk, feet on a chair, staring at the wall where he'd put up the pictures of the crime scenes. 

“What? When?” John asked confused.

“About an hour ago.” Sherlock replied, without looking at him.

“Didn't notice I'd gone out, then.” the doctor muttered while throwing a pen at his flat mate. He felt something heavy in his stomach at the thought that Sherlock didn't even notice his absence and seemed to see him as part of the furniture, but as always, he decided against examining this feeling and instead went to inspect the wall. At least the detective had been productive.

“Went to see about that job at the private clinic.” John mentioned absent minded.

“How was it?” Sherlock enquired, sounding less than interested.

“Great.” John said. “She's great.” 

“Who's great?”

John turned surprised at Sherlock's question. “The job.” He repeated, unsure if he'd said something wrong to give away that he wasn't thinking about the job at all. When the genius turned a frown on him, he was sure he had.

“She?”

Fuck, John thought. “It.” He corrected.

Sherlock stared at him through narrowed eyes for a moment longer, but just before John would have crumpled he sighed. “Look at it.” He nodded towards the laptop.

John let out a silent breath while moving to the computer. “The murderer that can walk through walls?” He read bits of the article and it sounded more than familiar although the name of the dead journalist didn't ring any bell.

“Same as Van Coon.” Sherlock said. “He killed again.” 

The detective slammed the laptop shut, rushing for his coat and scarf, suddenly manic energy after two days of apparent lethargy. “DI Dim can't ignore me now! C'mon, John!” 

Sherlock rushed down the stairs and left John with no choice but to follow.


	3. Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all is said and done, John reflects on everthing he was too blind to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, people, I'm well aware that it was a truly long wait, and I feel that I have to apologize but also explain. I have had a bad dose of real life, including getting engaged (yay), having pneumonia (definitely not yay) and exams (aced them all, biatch!). However, additionally, this story really had me blocked. I've mentioned in the previous chapter that I'll cut this one short, now, it turned out really short. I do promise that the Great Game will be more detailed than this, but I really couldn't get into the spirit so, even if you don't like my writing in this, please give the next installment a chance. 
> 
> Another thing, you will probably noticed that the style of writing changed a little bit. I might sound at times as if I actually brought myself into the story, but maybe you'll get the hint where this is leading. Extra hint: It's all in John's POV.
> 
> I've finally mentioned the blog, obviously the blog entries would be a bit different but I'm reading it as inspiration and a guide in how detailed the cases were. The Blind Banker was quite detailed, while Scandal in Balgravia wasn't, so you can guess that the fourth installment will have more canon elements. 
> 
> Anyway, long story short, here's basically the end of this installment, with some smut left over for the final chapter and that's it. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading and kind words. They are what made me go on. Hopefully Moriarty will bring some fresh air into it!

It wasn't before John lay in his bed after everything was said and done, all statements given, all checks collected, all distressed co-workers brought home, that he started to think about all the things he might have missed in the rush of the case. 

One could, when telling this story, this particular adventure, go through all the steps, describe every scene and every one of Sherlock's brilliant deductions but there's a rather famous blog for that and frankly, it's not what these stories are about. These stories are meant to tell what didn't make it into the blog. These stories are meant to tell what John – the John that still lived that life – thought was too private to tell the whole world. The stories that tell how John met Sherlock, how John fell in love with Sherlock, and in this case, how John was just too blind to see what was right in front of him. 

I am well aware that my retelling of how this John met Sherlock was far more detailed, and maybe my retelling of the stories that came after this one will be more detailed again, but for this particular story, the story of how John almost, just almost screwed everything up, the only really important scene that needs to be told, is the night after it all ended. For everything else, see the blog.

See, being a psychiatrist isn't all that much different from what Sherlock does. You listen, you watch. One word might be the key to a diagnosis. One twitch of the eyes might be the give away. So, in his time at the psychiatric ward, John has trained himself to watch for reactions, listen to statement, listen to the words, the tone, and read what's behind and between those words. He'd taught himself to observe, not just to see, and yet, after the adrenaline was gone, only then he noticed that he had somehow stopped doing that as soon as he left the hospital and entered 221B. 

It was one reaction he noticed in all the confusion, there for a second, gone the next, noticed by John but pushed away to the back of his mind to deal with the shit going on around them. This one reaction came back to him when he lay in his bed, feeling cold despite his thick duvet. 

“Don't worry. Next date won't be like this”, he had said, trying to joke in a worse-than-anything situation. Truth be told, had Sherlock cracked that joke, John would have told him off and yet, he had said it.

However, it wasn't Sarah's reaction to his awfully timed joke, that had him frown at his ceiling, but Sherlock's. 

For just a second there, really just a tiny part of a second, John had seen something in the other man's eyes before he turned away to look down the tunnel after General Shan. What had it been? Was it disappointment? Self-loathing? Was it hurt? Whatever it was, John was sure he had put it there and it wasn't something he wanted to see ever again (although he would, several times, though not all of them his fault).

It was then that John started to reflect. Had he missed more of those looks? Was he too caught up in his own denial (and yes, he wasn't too blind to see the symptoms in himself) to see what was happening to his flatmate, his friend, his almost lover?

Sexual identity crisis aside (and hadn't he been there before) John couldn't – but tried – to deny his more than obvious attraction to Sherlock. However, what was worse, he couldn't – but tried – to deny his deep infatuation with the man. It wasn't just that John wanted to have what they shared for two nights – although he did – he wanted more. He knew he wanted more, had come to terms with it and told Sherlock that he wouldn't be available for a casual arrangement for exactly that reason. 

Back then John had been sure it was just a crush, the stupid teenager kind, and if Sherlock wasn't stereotype crush material he didn't know who was. The man was beautiful, intelligent and in his own way charming, but also unreachable. He'd given John a taste, just a glimpse of what he could have, just enough for him to want more. Yes, definitely crush material. 

Obviously, when John moved in with him he'd expected it to go away like any other crush he'd had in his life. Like Michelle Kearen when he was 14. He was on the hook until he caught her making out with three of his fellow rugby players within five days. He wasn't interested when he advanced him on the sixth day. Or Lily McDonald, first year of uni. He'd pined after the girl that came with perfect scores and was likely to become top of their year for three months before she was hospitalised for OD on prescription drugs to help her study. 

Sherlock had more than enough traits and faults to put him off. John had known from the moment he first read his name that Sherlock used to be (was) a junkie. He quickly found out that the man (quite proudly) called himself a high functioning sociopath and although John knew that the diagnosis didn't really fit, it wasn't that far off either. And there were the small things you learn as a flatmate, like Sherlock's inability to do any sort of housework, his on-and-off smoking, his experiments on the kitchen table and the bloody (literally) specimens in the fridge. 

And yet, none of it really turned John off. Here he was, months after moving in with Sherlock and his crush wasn't going anywhere, in fact, it only became stronger. 

He'd had turned himself blind and deaf to all signals his own psyche had been sending him, so was it really unlikely that he'd had turned himself blind and deaf to all signals Sherlock might have sent his way?

He thought back to all the times Sherlock had introduced him as a friend, and all the times he corrected Sherlock, saying he was his flatmate or colleague. Did Sherlock look at him the same way he did after the date joke? 

He thought back to the conversation that lead up to them taking this case. Sherlock had been reading his emails – including the one from Sebastian Wilkes – when John told him he might have to get a new job. Sherlock had allowed John to use his debit card multiple times and John never thought much of it as he was usually buying groceries anyway, but could it be that Sherlock took a case from someone he clearly despised simply because John was in need of money? Would Sherlock take a dull case to show John that he didn't need to work at the hospital for them to get by? Was letting John take care of the checks Sherlock's way of saying 'this is our money' rather than 'this task is beneath my massive intellect'?

John shook his head, even if those were true, all they spoke of was their professional relationship. John had noticed that Sherlock actually liked to take him out on cases, so it wasn't that far fetched to think that Sherlock would like to have John as his PA all the time without any sentimental reasoning. 

_”Actually, I’ve, er, got a date.”_  
“What?”  
“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”  
“That’s what I was suggesting.”  
“No it wasn’t ... at least I hope not.” 

The conversation before the circus came to John's mind. Did Sherlock actually suggest that they'd go out on a date? Did Sherlock look sour when John said he hoped not? Was solving cases equal to go on dates for Sherlock?

_Two people who like each other go out and have fun._

They liked each other, that much was clear enough, and when they were solving cases they went out and had fun. John honestly couldn't remember laughing so much in his life before he lived with Sherlock, and honestly, Sherlock didn't seem the type to laugh a lot...

John eyes widened and he was out of bed before he could stop himself by thinking about it. By the time he reached the living room he had decided and he wouldn't back down. He would address this one last time and if Sherlock turned him down he'd start to deal with things like an adult and stop denying.

The man in question had not, as stated, retired to his room, but changed into pyjamas and dressing gown, standing by the window playing his violin in a most melancholy way. 

“Sherlock.” John interrupted the sad song before he lost his courage.

The detective turned slightly, indicating that he was listening but continued to play.

“Do you want to have sex?” John asked boldly, suppressing the smug grin that threatened to surface when the bow made a screeching sound as it slid off the strings of the violin. Sherlock stayed frozen, staring out the window for several seconds, and when he finally turned, taking down his instrument ever so slowly, he wouldn't directly look at John. 

“I remember a conversation in which you clearly stated that you no longer desire to have sexual relations with me.” Sherlock stated calmly, too calmly, John noticed, so the doctor took a step forward.

“That's not quite what I said back then, now, is it?” John enquired carefully. If he was right about Sherlock, the self-proclaimed sociopath wouldn't openly admit to having feelings for John, so the psychiatrist decided to let Sherlock get there on his own pace and without having to voice it.

The slight frown beneath the dark curls meant that Sherlock was looking into his mind palace for the exact wording. “You said, you can't be my flatmate with benefits.” 

“Yes.” John admitted slowly, hoping Sherlock would get there sooner than later.

“You said, casual sex is off the table and any surface I could think of.” Sherlock continued, “And yet, you just asked me...” he stopped, the frown deepening, “You didn't reconsider, did you? Your previous statements remain intact...”

“Absolutely.” John agreed.

Finally Sherlock's eyes found John's. “You didn't even consider us friends...”

John swallowed, he really had done some damage. “Look, I...I told you before, when I told you that I don't want to have casual sex with you, that I am interested in you. That's not easy for me, I find that sort of stuff hard enough as it is, but with a man, for the first time this late in my life...I admit I struggled to find a comfort zone but...I'm starting to think that we both have been looking in the wrong place.”

“John...” Sherlock started, hesitantly, “I already told you, I-”

“Oh, just shut up, you git! Don't give me the I'm married to my work bullshit or the even bigger sociopath crap. You know you're neither of that and you know that I know. I have no idea what happened to you that makes you so guarded and as you've pointed out multiple times, you're not looking for a therapist. Guess what, I'm not looking for a patient either. I'm looking for someone to share the bed at night, someone to take me out on adventures, do ridiculous and reckless stuff and come home laughing to a cuddle in front of the fire place and crap TV. I'm not looking for grant declarations or romantic gestures. I want what we already have, just a bit more intimate.” John took a deep breath once he ended his rant. 

Sherlock took a step closer to John. “You'd still come to cases.”

“Of course.” John answered.

“You wouldn't try and change me?”

“Not more than I always have.” John admitted.

“You wouldn't leave because I said something insensitive?” Sherlock resolutely stared at his bare feet.

“Sherlock...” John breathed, “I can't promise you that I won't be cross with you at times for something like that...but I know what you're like and I'm still here.”

“You will stop seeing women? And flirting with them. You will definitely have to stop flirting with them.” Sherlock looked up through his eyelashes.

John smiled slightly, “I'll try.” 

“Will you stop working at that ridiculous clinic?” Sherlock asked, taking another step so he was just within John's personal space.

“How about this,” John offered, “I'll keep doing locum work until we can afford living off of your business and then we'll see.” Sherlock opened his mouth but John cut him off, “One 10.000 pound check doesn't mean that. Show me that it works for at least a year, then we can talk about it. I'm not risking losing experience before I know it'll work out, and I do mean business and us, Sherlock.”

The detective nodded slowly, “So, sex?”

“Oh, god, yes.” John grinned.


	4. Oh God Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex...and emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puh, finally finished the smut and I kinda got angsty there again. Anyway, here it is, The Blind Psychiatrist finished and The Great Mind Games are already started, so the next wait will definitely not be as long.

John remembered (at least partly) the two encounters they had before, and therefore he expected to be swept off his feet this time as well. He hadn't considered that for one this was not casual sex and secondly Sherlock's amazing ability to surprise.

After John's enthusiastic “Oh, god, yes.” Sherlock answered with a smile that was rather timid. He closed the gap between them slowly, carefully, taking two smaller steps instead of the one normal step he'd actually need, as if to bide time, or to give John time to back away, the doctor wasn't sure which to this day.

Sherlock's hands hovered over John's arms, then shoulders, before they finally rested along his neck, his thumbs stroking softly over his cheeks before he tilted his new lover's head to brush their lips together. While their first kiss would forever be labelled The Kiss in John's mind, this one would go in a long line of Those Kisses. Those Kisses that Sherlock handed out rarely but affectionately. Those Kisses that came after a row and Sherlock still wasn't sure John had forgiven him. Those Kisses that spoke of insecurities, longing, need so desperate Sherlock would never find the words to describe them. Those Kisses that spoke of a love that John wouldn't understand for many weeks, maybe months, maybe even years to come, and maybe still didn't.

The subtle brush of lips didn't deepen until John took over and gently licked Sherlock's bottom lip. With a slight growl the detective took the hint, opened his mouth and welcomed John's searching tongue with his own. It didn't take them long to find their rhythm, taking and giving, being dominant to becoming submissive, taking their turns to explore, the rhythm they would from then on find immediately in any kiss no matter how heated, rushed or lazy.

The kiss ended no sooner than the next began, lips tingling with sensation, breathing each other's air. They made their way to the bedroom slowly, stopping at the kitchen door, then the fridge, the hallway wall to press each other into the surface for a moment, connecting their bodies all the way from their linked mouths to their knees, feeling each other. It was a dance they would dance many times after that, in different tempi. After a case it would be rushed, hungry, pressing to the wall would be more like slamming into the wall, and between cases it would be lazy, slow, and they wouldn't slam, they wouldn't even really press, they'd linger.

It always lead to the foot of the wide bed, though, their clothes mostly open or missing, in this instance, mostly open. They undressed each other without hurry, the kisses ceasing in favour of tasting newly exposed skin. Sherlock had taken his time to explore John's body that first night, John took his time then. After divesting both of them of any and all extra material, John started a journey he'd never truly finish. He set out to inspect, kiss, lick, touch every inch of Sherlock's body, every mole on his skin, every hair on his body. He didn't reach the soles of his feet or the back of his elbows, before Sherlock was little more than a quivering mess beneath him, words that meant orders but sounded like pleas falling from his lips in a voice John never expected from this man.

“Don't...tease...just...” Sherlock gasped, tugging at John's hair as the doctor kissed the inside of the detective's thighs.

“What? What do you want me to do?” John asked, feeling brave.

There was a silence long enough to make John look up into stormy, lust clouded eyes.

“I...I want you to take me in your mouth.” Sherlock stated, to which John swallowed compulsively. The image made his mouth water, and John would be a liar if he said he hadn't fantasized about it. Sherlock, however, seemed to read it as hesitation. “You don't have to...”

“I want to.” John grinned, sliding up on the bed to get near his target. He nosed the dark pubic hair, breathing in Sherlock's scent, “God, I want to.”

Licking the erected shaft from base to tip, John heard a guttural groan from above and guessed he had done something right. He closed his eyes, catching a little drop of precome with the tip of his tongue. Neither the taste nor the texture was utterly new to him, he has kissed women after receiving oral before, and yet, he's never found it quite as much of a turn on as right then. He alternated techniques, testing this and that, changing between licking and sucking, trying to fit it all in his mouth – and failing gloriously with a not so minor amount of gagging.

“I think that's enough for the first time.” Sherlock chuckled, pulling John up by his shoulders.

“That wasn't very good, was it?” John asked, blushing a deep red and still coughing.

Sherlock's finger trailed along the lips that had just been wrapped around his cock. “Oh, John, for your first time that was just perfect. What you lacked in knowledge and finesse you definitely made up with enthusiasm. Besides, if it were much better, this would have been over much too soon.”

The detective flipped them so John was on his back, the taller man hovering over him. “Enough teasing, anyway.” He murmured, mouthing the doctor's neck.

“Sherlock...” John said, moaned really, “Would you...” he trailed off, his earlier bravery wavering.

“What, John, tell me.” Sherlock insisted, his hand finding John's erection and stroking – despite his own words – quite teasingly.

“I'd like...I mean,...could we try...”

Sherlock's hand left the doctor's cock – with quite a verbal protest from said doctor – and the sleuth pushed himself up to look down at his lover. “You...you want to...you want me to...”

“I'd like to try.” John whispered, feeling his face heat up. “I mean I've never...not even with a finger...”

Sherlock swallowed hard and looked away for a moment. Then he grinned at John, “Oh, you're in for a treat.” He kissed John hungrily for about a minute that felt like hours to John before he made his way down John's neck, chest, abdomen and finally towards his cock. “I'll give you additional stimulation to ease you through the initial burn. Don't worry, just stay relaxed.”

“Easy for you to say.” John muttered.

“Trust me.” Sherlock said softly and John wasn't quite sure if it was a statement or a question. He nodded either way. “Do try not to come too quickly.” Sherlock warned before he went to work.

And good lord, he knew how to work it. With his cock engulfed in a wet heat so delicious, John didn't even notice that Sherlock had opened a bottle of lube, or that he had coated his fingers and barely noticed the slick digit circling his hole, until he suddenly did. First there was pressure and he clenched reflexively. It wasn't completely true that he was all new to this, he had been given a prostate exam before however in a sexual context he really was an anal virgin. He fought his breath out and tried to concentrate on the tongue doing marvelous things to him and finally he relaxed enough, Sherlock immediately using the opportunity to insert a finger. 

It was a phenomenon John experienced any time he had sex with Sherlock, and god, that was a number higher than he could possibly remember. Any time they had sex, John completely lost track of time. That first time in their relationship ( the previous two counting as casual in his mind, still to this day) John could tell that Sherlock kept it slow. He took as much time to prepare John as he thought was needed, pausing every once in a while to give John a break to catch his breath. However, John couldn’t possibly, for the life of him, say whether it’d been five minutes or five hours since they’d gone to bed together. 

The doctor did think he had a good enough excuse with a mouth on his cock and by then four fingers up his arse, stroking his prostate just right to make him forget the burn and feel the pleasure.

“Sherlock…” John started breathlessly. 

His cock was released with a plop and Sherlock’s face appeared above his. 

“It’ll still burn a bit.” Sherlock warned. 

“Don’t care, just - do it.” John panted. 

Truth be told, to be on the receiving end of anal sex would never become John’s favourite way of having sex. He did enjoy it on occasion - extraordinary morning/birthday sex after a three days case about a year after their first time was a particular fond memory - however the reason he enjoyed it wasn’t exactly the pleasure of the act itself. Sherlock hadn’t lied to him, it did burn when he pushed the blunt head of his prick through the loosened muscles of John’s arse, his erection did flag a bit and it took several hits to his prostate and Sherlock’s more than skilled hand to get him back into the game, so to say. After that the sensation did become pleasurable, if somewhat uncomfortable - and the soreness the morning after was something John could not anticipate at this point - but there was something that closed the deal that this was not a one time experience. No matter in which way they had sex, whether it was penetrative with Sherlock bottoming, whether they were facing eachother, whether they were chest to back, as close as humanly possible to each other, John never felt as … connected to Sherlock as he did in this instance. 

Maybe it was because Sherlock was above him, their eyes locked, mouths just a hair’s breadth away from each other, breathing the same air. His world was Sherlock, everything he could see, smell, taste, hear and feel. Sherlock was inside him, physically and psychologically. They were one, an unit, connected deeper than anything. Possibly it was because this was his first, the first man he let do this, and the last, the only one. 

His orgasm came as a surprise, ripping through him like lightning, forcing his eyes shut, pressing out the tears that had gathered during his epiphany. This was it. This was his life now and forever, he and Sherlock. He would never let anyone or anything come between them, not if there was anything he could do. 

He didn’t notice the sob that escaped his lips, apparently perfectly timed with Sherlock pulling out, before a large hand cupped his cheek. 

“Did I hurt you?” Sherlock asked tentatively and John couldn’t help but laugh hysterically, love declarations on the tip of his tongue, the depth of his feelings for this man causing him to panic slightly.

“Not yet.” He answered, trying to make it sound like a joke and covering it up with a smile. Sherlock’s eyes penetrated him even more than his dick had and John knew he had to say something to defuse the situation. “It was … overwhelming.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, wiping his hand on a tissue from the bedside table, “Well, evidently you did like it.”

John sighed, his heart barely calming to a normal rhythm. “I did … but, well … let’s save that for special days, alright?” He looked at Sherlock, hoping he sounded like a man saying ‘I’m not quite ready to admit how much I like you buckering me’ rather than a man saying ‘I’m not psychologically stable enough to take this much emotion all the time’. 

Sherlock nodded, laying down beside John. “Sure. Just tell me if you want it.” He kissed John deeply, then settled into the pillows. “I quite enjoy being on the receiving end anyway.” 

“Sure you would, you lazy bastard.” John grinned as Sherlock punched him playfully but yawned widely.

“Sleep?”

“Sounds perfect.” John smiled, finally coming down from a high he never found with anyone before Sherlock or after him.


End file.
